Top Tips to Keep him Keen
by tsukinoblossom
Summary: Sherlock worries his fairly new relationship is in trouble. He goes to Mrs. Hudson for advice. Mrs. Hudson apparently goes to Cosmopolitan magazine for advice. Fluffy and silly, but not as cracky as it sounds. Rated T for cursing and insinuations of sex.


**For some reason, I find the idea of Sherlock reading terrible out of character magazines like Cosmo hilarious, and I was itching to find a way to work it into a story. I apologize for the ridiculousness and fluff contained within! The title is my feeble attempt at a campy magazine article headline. I would like to thank my friend casrial for the suggestion.**

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><p>John reached for the teakettle to fill it and was taken aback when he realised it was already full. Had Sherlock actually refilled it at some point? But no, the weight felt wrong – it wasn't sloshing around like water should. He lifted the lid gingerly, only to be greeted by what appeared to be several tongues. They might have come from human beings, or possibly large dogs, but John didn't have it in him to figure out which. He sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand and put the kettle back on the counter. He'd make himself a cuppa with his little electric kettle once he got to work.<p>

Stepping out of the kitchen he was treated to the rare sight of Sherlock in his pyjama bottoms and naught else. They'd been properly involved for a few months now, but the taller man rarely left the bedroom in anything less than his shirt, pyjama bottoms and robe. The broad expanse of creamy, toned flesh still excited him, despite his prior irritation. Especially since Sherlock had been engrossed in a case for the past week and apparently amorous gestures and affection of any sort were somewhere below food and sleep on his list of needs. John pulled Sherlock to him, kissing him with a little more vigour than a typical morning greeting deserved. However, as he pulled away the former irritation must have flickered across his face and the consulting detective prided himself on observation, after all.

"John, is something the matter?"

"It's nothing, Sherlock, don't worry about it."

"From what I've come to understand, those two phrases, particularly when used in conjunction, tend to mean '_Something is quite wrong and you should be concerned'_. Please tell me what's upsetting you."

John sighed deeply, for the second time in what seemed like a very short period of time.

"It's just… the tongues, Sherlock. In the teakettle. And really, the way you've been rebuffing me since you took this new case. I know, I know, your work comes first. But sometimes I'm curious as to what a normal relationship would be like, you know? Flowers on the table instead of tissue samples. Food in the fridge instead of biological hazards. A cup of tea when I need one. Sex when I'm horny. It's nice to feel wanted, you know?"

He cringed inwardly at the look of shock and confusion that flickered across Sherlock's face, and reached out to stroke the man's unearthly cheekbones.

"Hey, hey, don't look like that. It's nothing to worry about. I'm just tired and irritable, and the tongues were a bit of a startle, you know? I've got to head to work but I'll bring home some takeaway for dinner tonight and maybe we can relax a bit if you manage to solve that case while I'm gone, alright?"

Sherlock pursed his glorious lips and looked guardedly at John. "I'm sorry I don't know how to do this properly." John sighed again (he was doing an awful lot of that, wasn't he?) and hugged him. "Sherlock, it's fine. It's who you are. I knew that when we started this, and I'm sorry I snapped at you. We're fine. It's all fine. But I really do need to get to work, okay?" With a pinched smile, John pulled his jumper on and headed for the stairs while Sherlock hung from the doorframe, staring forlornly at his back.

His case forgotten, Sherlock resolved to figure out a way to show John how much he did care. As soon as the doctor had closed the front door at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock went bounding down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! I need your advice!"

She peered out from her own door, wrapped in a lurid floral housecoat.

"Sherlock, what on earth? Why aren't you wearing a top?"

Sherlock gestured dismissively. "Mrs. Hudson. I need some assistance."

"Alright, alright dear, come on inside and I'll get you some tea and biscuits. Where's John gone off to?"

"John's at work. He's also what I need advice about."

"Oh, dear. Have you two had a little row? I have to say, I haven't heard your bedsprings in a few days…"

For an old woman, she was certainly shrewd. Even she'd noticed a problem before Sherlock had. He felt as though he should be embarrassed at the implication, but he had more important things on his mind.

"Yes. Well, no. Well, I'm... I don't know." Sherlock grumbled, frustrated at his sudden inability to express himself.

Mrs. Hudson clucked sympathetically. "It must be important, to leave you so flummoxed, dear."

"John said it wasn't. But I think it was. I think he's fed up with me."

Their landlady (not their housekeeper!) just nodded and looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to continue. He summarized the entire morning's discussion, starting with the kettleful of tongue and ending with the self-righteous statement that John should just _know_ Sherlock still wanted him, he was just busy.

"Darling, it doesn't always work that way. I'm sure consciously John knows all this, but sometimes you have to take the first step and show him. Hold on a moment." She rummaged around in the pile of clutter beside her favourite armchair and pulled out a few magazines in garish colours, with overly made-up women on the covers. "Here you go, there's a few articles in these that might give you some ideas." She winked.

Sherlock eyed the magazines with distaste and picked one up by the corner, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

"Mrs. Hudson, really? Do people actually _read_ these things? Do you?"

"Just because I'm getting on in years doesn't mean I don't need to keep up! Go on then, read one or two. Consider them one of your little experiments."

Never one to do things in half-measures, Sherlock spent the better part of the afternoon poring through the ridiculous magazines, but by the end he was surprised to realise he had gleaned a few insightful tips. Apparently relationships could get repetitive and predictable after a while, and spontaneous gestures and tokens of affection were a good way to show your partner how you felt. He resolved to test out this theory as soon as John got home from work.

**1 – Kiss like you mean it**

Realizing he'd neglected his case all day, he got dressed properly in order to motivate himself and got to work, reviewing files and studying photographs intently. He lost track of time, but was knocked out of his work-induced trance state when he heard John's familiar footsteps on the stairs up to the flat. He jumped out of his chair and bolted to the door, pulling it open in time to greet his lover by grabbing the front of his jumper and pulling him into a deep kiss. John, taken aback, dropped the bags he was carrying and cringed as he heard them tumble down the stairs, landing with finality in a wet _SPLAT_.

"Sherlock, what the hell? I was rather looking forward to that chicken tikka, and I'd even bought a pie for dessert. Now I'll have to clean all that up." He groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose, and trudged back down the stairs to start trying to salvage what he could of their dinner.

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked back into the flat, giving up that particular moment as a lost cause.

**2 – Guys appreciate flowers too!**

A few days later John came home from running errands, dropped a few Tesco bags on the counter, pointedly avoided looking in the fridge, the kettle, or the Styrofoam takeaway container on the counter and headed towards the upstairs bedroom to change. When he got there, the smell was overpowering – there were vases full of flowers on every available free surface. It was cloying to the point of making him cough, and the odour reminded him unpleasantly of every funeral home he'd ever been in. He turned around to head back down the stairs and saw Sherlock lurking in the doorway, chewing apprehensively on his lip. It was an oddly out of character gesture, and John found it rather charming, but the look on his own face must have still expressed the irritation and confusion he felt about the state of his bedroom.

"It was…" Sherlock hesitated, torn between telling him the truth and making up some excuse. Judging by John's reaction, the latter course of action was the more appropriate one in this situation. "For an experiment. I'm sorry, I'll get them cleared out."

**3 – Surprise him at work in a cute new outfit – or lack thereof.**

A few days later, Sherlock decided to give it another go. He had to admit he felt a little silly wearing nothing but his coat, his blue scarf, and a pair of riding boots he'd pulled out of the closet to somewhat disguise the fact that his legs were bare. From a distance, it wasn't obvious that he was devoid of trousers. He got into the cab and told the driver to head to the surgery.

He sat in the hallway outside of John's consultation room, and when he saw the last woman in the waiting area go in and then leave about twenty minutes later, he got up to make his move. He barged in, saw John at his desk and pulled his coat open as soon as the door closed behind him.

John gaped at the deliciously distracting strip of pale skin, his gaze glancing despite himself from Sherlock's collarbones to further down, at his obvious erection somewhat hidden within the shadow of the coat. "Sherlock? What on earth-?"

"I want you, John. Right here. Right now. On the examining table."

"We can't, Sherlock. This is ridiculous. I'm at work!"

"There's nobody here, John, what have you got to worry about?"

"Mrs. MacKenzie just stepped out to, er, get a sample. She'll be back any moment!"

As if on cue, a tiny grey-haired lady shuffled back into the room, nearly bumping into Sherlock's back. He spun around with a huff, giving her rather more of an eyeful than she was anticipating before managing to do his coat up and stomp out of the room. She stared wide-eyed at John, who was blushing a furious shade of scarlet.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. M. I think he was looking for the psychiatric clinic."

**4 – A home-cooked meal can go a long way to showing your feelings.**

Surely cooking couldn't be that difficult – after all, it was just chemistry. Sherlock spent the afternoon searching online for recipes that involved things he'd been able to salvage from the cupboard and the refrigerator. He'd managed to carefully prepare everything required for a decent-looking fettuccine alfredo and had the sauce simmering away on the hob when Lestrade texted him.

Half an hour and a quick case solved over the phone later, Sherlock smelled something foul coming from the direction of the kitchen and jumped over the table to get to it in hopes of salvaging something. Sadly, dinner was a write-off. He was attempting to scrape out the bottom of the pan when John walked into the flat, his face scrunched up in horror.

"Sherlock, what the bloody buggering fuck is that awful smell?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing, John. Just another experiment. I'll clean up shortly and we can order in for dinner tonight."

**5 – Make him feel wanted by initiating impromptu sex.**

Several days had passed since his last disastrous attempt, and Sherlock was determined to make this last suggestion work. He bounded up the stairs, pulling off his coat and hanging it behind the door in one smooth motion. He heard John in the hall and darted towards him, grabbing his shoulders and pressing him aggressively against the wall. John was startled and there was the corner of a picture frame or something digging into his shoulder (not the bad one, thankfully), but it had been so long since Sherlock had initiated anything like this, aside from that misguided melodrama at work several days ago, that he soon yielded, going limp in the taller man's arms. They kissed fiercely for a few moments, Sherlock wrestling his tongue between John's lips as his knee worked its way between John's legs. It wasn't long before John felt a familiar and welcome stirring in his groin and started grinding himself against Sherlock's thigh.

Taking it as a positive sign, Sherlock reached down and abruptly slid his hand right down the front of John's jeans and into his pants. One thing he'd neglected to take into account was how bitterly cold it had been outside, and his hands were still suffering the effects. John yelped loudly and his entire body convulsed, causing him to smack the back of his head violently against the wall.

"Christ, Sherlock!" he groaned, "What has gotten into you lately?" With a huff, John extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp and leaned over, rubbing the back of his head gingerly. "I need a drink. I'm going to the pub. I'll be back in a bit." Sherlock cringed inwardly but said nothing, stepping aside to let John out.

When John got back he seemed to be in a much better mood. Sherlock was tapping away on the doctor's laptop, too distracted to have bothered getting his own, apparently. As John lowered himself tiredly into his armchair, he felt something prodding him in the back. He moved the Union Jack cushion out of the way and was rather startled to find a stack of women's lifestyle magazines. He turned to Sherlock and held one of the magazines up.

"What on earth are these for?" he asked, trying to suppress a giggle.

"For a case. Obviously. I had to borrow them from Mrs. Hudson. They're such rubbish – I don't understand why women read then." Sherlock glared contemptuously at the distasteful magazine and went back to the computer.

Curious, John flipped through it and noticed there were small paper flags on several of the articles, all of them having to do with preventing your relationship from getting predictable, apologizing to your partner after an argument, or making your partner feel appreciated and loved. He sucked pensively on his lower lip for a moment before getting up and resting his hands lightly on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sherlock, did you borrow these after my little strop the other morning? Is that why you've been doing all these ridiculous things like accosting me in the hallway or filling my room with the most pungent flowers you could possibly find?" He was chuckling, and the undertone in his voice was undeniably sweet and fond.

Sherlock spun around in his chair, breaking John's hold on his shoulders, and looked up at him. Pale, silvery eyes met warm deep ones and both men smiled awkwardly.

"I was afraid, John. Afraid things had gotten predictable, afraid you wanted a normal, dull life, afraid you were going to realise what a mistake this all was. I'm still not used to _caring_ so much."

John smiled again, more warmly this time, and crouched down a bit so his face was level with Sherlock's. "Next time you're worried about something like this, can you ask me first? I'm sorry, I never should have left in the middle of that conversation, we could have had this all resolved before ruining the rug at the bottom of the stairs and nearly giving me a concussion. Listen to me, Sherlock. I love you. You're a madman, and I love you. Not in spite of it. Because of it, probably. And while I appreciate you trying to surprise me, life with you is never predictable. I will never be bored with you, and I will never want a _dull, normal_ life. I knew what to expect when I signed on for this, and I wouldn't change you for the world. But if you're really worried, you can stop leaving organs in the tea kettle, and label the ones in the fridge. Now promise me one thing. No more ridiculous ladies' magazines in the flat, unless you really do need them for a case."

He leaned forward until their foreheads were touching and their eyes were locked together. At that moment, Sherlock realised that John had used three very small but very big words that neither of them had said up until now.

"I love you too, John."


End file.
